Set Down Your Glass
by SureFineWhatever
Summary: This is my first ever fanfiction, so please be gentle though constructive criticism is always welcomed too! If you like it, I'll write more of course! Special thanks to Lady J Scarlett for encouraging me to get writer's fever again! Set roundabout S8...
1. Chapter 1

**OK, so here goes! This one's named after the Snow Patrol song I just happened to listening to as I began to write all this. Do give it a listen if you can, it's beautiful!**

**Spooks, nor any of its characters belong to me. Unfortunately! :P**

* * *

He swirled the pungent liquid in its shallow glass. Peering over the rim as he swallowed, he could see her; not clearly, but he knew she was there. Her chair and her arched back leaning over her desk was in his eyeline. He'd seek her out, subconciously sometimes, but would always end up sat like this, looking at her. He felt both guilty and exhilarated by it. And it was these small pleasures that he held on to, the only part of their relationship he could determine for himself.

* * *

Somewhere along the line, this is what they had come to. Secret glances, knowing looks and barely uttered plesantries. She knew it was partly her decision to pull away, to maintain the professionalism they had both initially strived to up-keep. The affection that was born out of this was simply only expected in this job. Mutual respect was about as far as it should have always been. She told her herself that her habitual loneliness had simply been relinquished in his prescence, and it was this she craved, not him.

She had a taste of what a normal life could be, and it was taken away by the very life she was forced to escape. He was part of that, and somewhere along the way, he had become buried underneath the life of details she had she sat at the very desk she had aquired all those years ago, her second life seemed like a dream, a life experienced in coma, only to re-emerge out of unconciousness to find everything as it was, back to the beginning.

Day and night could pass on the otherside of these four walls, and she would not know. Her job was one where every second mattered, every second was another second where disaster and suffering could be averted. Riding the bus home was her moment of clarity to resurface as a regular human being, tutting very sternly when the bus was a few minutes too late, or when the weather was particularly unforgiving that day. It didn't matter that she had prevented an illegal drugs trade-off or freed a hostage when she showed her pass to the driver, she was just another person trying to get home. And it was in moments like this that her mind would change gear, go on auto-pilot, recharge for tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

As she finished the chapter to her book, she closed it and rested it on her lap. She loved finishing a chapter just before her stop, it was a kind of surge of life's infrequent equilibrium that she secretly revelled in. She fingered the spine lightly, feeling the well-worn creases that held the yellowed pages of time that rested warm. It was a book she had picked up on Charing Cross Road, a second hand gem, bought and read in the first few months of working at MI-5. Occasionally, she would retrieve it from the shelf, and it was a ritual she had partaken in more and more frequently recently.

Stepping off the bus, she placed it in her bag once more, only mildy irritated that it knocked against her thigh as she neared her ornate front door. She loved that stained glass door and the loud click of her key in the lock. She was home. Some evenings, very much like this particular one for example, the house was too large for her. She'd notice more than usual the empty sound of her shoes being placed clumsily against the skirting board in the hall, or the sudden plunge into silence after deactivating the alarm.

* * *

It was the flicker of the television that woke him from his distant reverie. Recognising the Home Secretary on the 24-hour BBC News channel as the bulletin ran it's constant loop, he sat up slowly. Absent-mindedly rubbing his forehead still tense from the day's events, he vacated the sofa, determined in his mission to get out of the house, and out of his head for a while.

On the Millennium Bridge he strolled once more towards the South Bank. Turning on his heel, he looked round to see St Paul's Cathedral glowing in it's artificial light. He'd walked along this bridge many times before, sometimes alone, but it was the walks with her he remembered at this moment. He tried to imagine what she'd say if she was stood there with him, marvelling at the neo-classical architecture no doubt, he smiled to himself. Though of course, he knew he wasn't giving her enough credit...their talks on this bridge had been about far more than the average admirer of London's places of interest could possibly fathom.

Reaching the South Bank, he eventually approached the BFI after what seemed like a fairly strenous stroll beside the river. Crowds of cosmopolitan couples and accquaintances milled about the riverside cafe bar and the cinema entrance. He very nearly walked past, like he'd often done before when on more urgent business, but instead he choose to stop, noticing the posters for the London Film Festival that arrayed the building. He very quickly discovered, upon asking a nearby steward, that the showing tonight was The Red Shoes.


	3. Chapter 3

_Time rushes by, love rushes by, life rushes by, but the Red Shoes go on..._

Here she was, once again. She didn t dare guess how many times she d ended up exactly like this, curled on the sofa, the cushion in her arms and resting under her chin. She squinted in the dark at the screen, blinking at the flashes at red that danced. The Red Shoes was a film that reminded her of her childhood, of Sunday afternoon film doubles on BBC2 and rainy days that kept her inside. The stirring feeling of fascination mixed with a light addictive dash of fear of the fantastical had always kept her watching...now she recognised this same feeling everyday in her job. To her, the precariousness of life was reflected in just those two hours of film, of an existence always teetering on the brink.

She thought more closely of Julian this evening, of the frustration he felt in never being able to be the focus of Vicky s life, and the devastation it inevitably caused. It eventually came to the scenes towards the end that made the lump in her throat harder to ignore...this was the moment she d get up to put the kettle on and re-emerge into her reality.

_Julian? Yes, my darling? Take off the red shoes..._

He was enjoying this, he thought. He felt like he was sat in the theatre, watching a ballet production, but with the crunch of popcorn and the occasional murmur, he was able to re-orientate himself. He tried to remember the last time he had gone to the cinema, and was ashamed to recall that it must have been when the children were younger. He loved the mysterious anonymity of the place...it was appealing to the natural spook inside him, he could tell.

_One day when I'm old, I want some lovely young girl to say to me, "Tell me, where in your long life, Mr. Caster, were you most happy?" And I shall say, 'Well, my dear, I never knew the exact place. It was somewhere on the Mediterranean. I was with Victoria Page." "What?" she will say. "Do you mean the famous dancer?" I will nod. "Yes, my dear, I do. Then she was quite young, comparatively unspoiled. We were, I remember, very much in love."_

He cringed at the parallels he instantly drew in his mind with his own predicament. He wondered when it would ever stop feeling like something that should be suppressed, but something that ought to celebrated and cherished. Somehow, he had an inkling that this would be exactly the type of film she'd enjoy, and made a mental note to ask her about it, if he ever got the chance.


	4. Chapter 4

Chastising herself for once again staying up too late the night before, she arrived at her desk on The Grid and sighed at the pile of files and paperwork that had somehow reproduced and multiplyed since the day before. Removing her scarf, she sat down in her chair and absent-mindedly span it round, quickly gazing at her surroundings. She managed to see him at his desk, already in a meeting with whom she assumed was Juliet. The outcome of this meeting would set the mood for the rest of the day, and she hoped that he was less hot-tempered than usual. Juliet had a habit of pushing his fiery nature to it's limits without much concern of the ramifications it would later have on the Grid.

She was glad to see Jo arrive a few minutes later. She enjoyed Jo's company, more than she ever expected when she first joined the team. Her fresh-faced attitude to the work and vivacity reminded her of Zoe in some ways, though perhaps a little less sharp-tongued and definitely not so stubborn. She smiled fondly, and engaged in the usual morning plesantries that floated about the Grid, a practice that she assumed was the same for most workplaces. She liked this. It reminded her that with all the stresses and disasters averted on a typical day at Thames House, they were all just regular people trying to get on with their jobs, all just regular people who enjoyed the arrival of the pay cheque every month.

Jo's offering of coffee was met eagerly as this particular morning, she had forgone her usual pick-me-up cup of coffee in favour of the bus she knew would be fast-approaching. Peering into his office, she could see him stood by his would-be drinks cabinet side table, pouring himself a hard drink. It was difficult to determine whether the meeting was a success or not, but judging on Juliet's darted exit from his office, it may be one of those good days of work she'd heard so much about...

* * *

He sat at his desk and congratulated himself on a meeting well-handled. Helped along, he was sure, by an non-interrupted night's sleep preceeded by a successful trip to the cinema. He decided it would become a regular outing, once a week or so. He never quite fit in at the old gentleman's clubs that his peers frequented, and this way, he could choose to remain anonymous for a few hours more and get lost in a world that recently, seemed far more interesting than his own. A fleeting thought stumped him. It was however, interrupted by a gentle knock and the appearance of her at his door.

"Thought I'd knock. I couldn't quite gauge the outcome of that meeting.."

"How very uncharacteristic of you," he replied gesturing her towards the chair opposite him. She entered, but chose to stand instead.

"was there anything in particular you wished to speak about?"

He could see her instantly switch back into work-mode, her fumblings with the paper files in her hands he guessed, were more telling than she'd care to admit. She preceded to report evidence that showed a dead-end on surveilance they had been conducting since a mysterious tip-off recieved earlier in the month. They went through the motions once again, the short, barely acknowledged moments of genuine respect and fondness becoming a distant part of the conversation, never recieving the attention it truly deserved.


	5. Chapter 5

She strolled slowly to the cinema, admiring the view of the Thames on a crisp autumn evening...it was a sight that she enjoyed countless times, along with people walking just like her; men with briefcases, couples with dogs, and the jogger that would zoom past before she'd even had a chance to move swiftly out of his path. London was her home, and rather suprisingly, her safe haven. And it was evenings like this that it was reaffirmed to her.

She'd gone there on a whim. Finding a discarded festival programme on her seat on the bus home reminded her love of film, and it had made her determined not to miss yet other season of the London Film Festival. She was saddened to see that she had missed a showing of 'The Red Shoes' two nights before, noting strangely how it was in fact the very night she had chosen to revisit the classic. The film chosen for tonight: 'Gold Rush'. To ignore the film's significance would have been foolish, and as she neared the cinema she suddenly became very aware of what she was doing. She felt silly. She hated feeling silly. She felt pathetic and lonely. Glancing at her watch, she saw that she still had half an hour before the showing time and sat, feeling suddenly emotionally exhausted on a near-by bench outside the BFI. At that moment, she wondered when this unspeakable feeling would go away...

* * *

Queuing. A very British habit, that with its promotion of polite manners, was all the same, rather infuriating. He thought of that Woody Allen film, the name of which had escaped him, where he and Diane Keaton endure a rather loud and indulgent conversation about films from the couple behind them. 'Annie Hall' was it?

So here he was, at the cinema for a second time that week. Except it was different this time. Thinking it would be nice to see this film, the memories it instead induced were already unsteadying him. The idea that it would settle the demons that badgered his everyday existence was quickly becoming a fallacy. But it was too late to turn back now, and before he knew it, he was at the front of the queue and the couple behind him were eagerly discussing the genuis of Charlie Chaplin at a deafening volume. Striding towards the counter, he told himself to relinquish the saddess that had over time, formed a knot in his stomuch he had long learned to ignore.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you for the feedback, though more is always welcome of course! :P Just a short chapter I'm afraid, I'll try to be more prolific I promise!**

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She found herself joining the end of what seemed like the longest queue in cinematic history, just minutes before the showing was due to start. She very nearly almost chose to turn back home whilst outside in the freezing cold, but the promise of a warm 90 minutes or so, plus the fact that she had pre-paid tickets, was an incentive in her decision to stay. She lured herself into the building with the promise of ice cream, but judging from the size of the queue she now trudged along in, there would be no time for such treats.

He found a seat towards the end of the line, and placed his long overcoat on the seat next to him nearest the aisle. He was relieved to have found a seat, and sat thinking of those still stuck in the queue at the box office. Seeing the ushers at the door reminded him of some of his most memorable cinema experiences as a young man. He remembered seeing The Deer Hunter almost as soon as it was released, and was suprised at the profound effect it had on him. It was a war film that focused on so much more than the violence of conflict, but on the psychology of war trauma and its manifestations into life after the service. The memory of this film haunted him long after the credits rolled. And it was such key pin-pointed moments that contributed to his attitude to his work and his personal beliefs. The influence of cinema had been profound, he pondered solemnly. He was then so lost in his thoughts, that he failed at first, to hear a hushed voice beside him.

* * *

"Oh um, hi, do you mind if I join you? This is the only vacant seat I can get to..." she whispered discreetly just as the lights went down.

"Why yes, of course" he obliged, quickly scooping up his long overcoat from the seat next to him. He smiled at her fondly, welcoming her company.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you for all the wonderful reviews for my first ever fanfiction! I do hope my inexperience hasn't shone through too much :') Anyway, here's the latest and possibly final chapter, hope you like it!**

**Of course Spooks, doesn't belong to me, but to the BBC and Kudos.**

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"I feel like Celia Johnson in Brief Encounter doing this." she revealed, decidedly anxious at their first clandestine meeting since that first time, an age ago. In another life.

"I guess I should be flattered I qualify as a Trevor Howard then!" he retorted as she sat down beside him. Neither plucked up the courage to explore the analogy any further.

He gazed at her amusedly. She seemed flustered as she began her seasonal ritual of removing her winter scarf and gloves moments before the lights were due to soften further into darkness.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to keep you waiting...you won't have to result to the breadrolls just yet. Well, what I meant to say was..." she rambled nervously.

He chuckled heartedly, touched by her attempt at small talk. "Do be quiet Miss Evershed, the magic of cinema must be enjoyed in a reverent hush." he replied jokily. He hoped she could sense his teasing, but deep down, he knew she would.

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**Dedicated to Lady J Scarlett :)**


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